


ocean of light

by grossly



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dreams, Gen, introspective selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9409664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grossly/pseuds/grossly
Summary: Yahaba doesn't drown.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [kiyala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala) in the [selfcestfest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/selfcestfest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Yahaba from canon meets himself from an alternate universe in which he's actually a talented setter. 
> 
> How it goes is totally up to you; he can hate himself, he can admire himself, he can even express those feelings physically. 
> 
> Bonus points for one Yahaba beating the other one up.

When Shigeru sees him, it feels like someone has gouged his heart out.

Tears are prickling from his eyes, and maybe he’s been punched in the gut, maybe he’s been beaten and bruised and bloodied to half death, because it hurts, it _hurts so much_. His mind can’t process anything but white hot, and he presses his fingernails into his palms so hard they leave dark purple crescents in between sister life lines and heart lines.

Shigeru sees a flawless form and muscles more toned than his, high-fiving the upperclassmen and Watari and Kindaichi and even a harassed-looking Kunimi. He sees confident words and bold tactics and pinpoint execution, melding the team together better than he ever could.

His heart breaks.

 

 

They come to him in dreams.

At first they’re tiny snitches, barely of importance, ones that he forgets as soon as the daylight hits his eyelids. He wakes up, goes through the daily grind; trying to somehow coerce Kyoutani into working better with the team, or Kunimi into putting more effort in practising, or himself—just get through the day, please—and he loves volleyball. He really does.

But he’s starting to feel that sometimes, in certain cases, passion isn’t enough.

The day he wakes up with dashed breath and tears in the corner of his eyes and metaphysical fists pounding on his red-hot heart, he knows.

 

 

 _His_ hands are flawless.

They are smooth and soft, a nice creamy beige colour, not too tan and not too pale. Long and straight and slender fingers, and neatly clipped fingernails. Palm lines that run long and unbroken. Unmarred skin. Shigeru takes these perfect hands, slowly, in his own trembling ones.

There is no warmth.

He clutches them tight and brings them close to his eyes, vision blurry with tears.

 

 

They are wading through water.

Not side by side. _He_ is strides ahead of Shigeru, marching on unflinchingly and unwaveringly, like a tank heading into battle. Shigeru feels the waves pushing against his calves, and he stumbles forward, barely avoiding tripping. The lost, floating sensation in his stomach grows into desperation. He lurches forward.

Shigeru can see the waves rising in the distance, hear their roar in his ears like a mighty lion’s. He reaches forward, tries to call out, but there’s something wrong with his throat, or maybe there’s something wrong with his ears, because all he can hear is the roaring, roaring, roaring.

The wave crashes over them now, and Shigeru lets himself be suspended in the furious waters. Through the haze of violent blue, he makes out a blurry silhouette, treading forward one sure step at a time.

Unflinchingly, unwaveringly.

 

 

Sometimes, Shigeru still sees Oikawa.

He’s always with Iwaizumi, their arms bumping against each other, his nose perpetually buried in a book or notes or whatever other study material. Sometimes his hair is unkempt, and he’s taken a liking to wearing his glasses.

He always, always, always wants to ask him, but his body freezes up and he feels like he’s falling off the Tokyo Tower even though his feet are firmly rooted to the ground. His chances pass, like sugar dissolving into coffee, leaving a bittersweet aftertaste in his chest.

_Why did you choose me?_

 

 

They are wading through the water again.

Shigeru’s legs feel lighter. _He_ is closer than before.

Shigeru trudges onward through the dark, choppy waters. It is hard, but he can do it. He has to. He has to speak with _him_ face to face, look _him_ in the eye, _he has to ask_ him—

—Shigeru grabs _his_ arm. _He_ stops with a jerk. Somehow, Shigeru manages to find his voice, even amidst the roaring of the waves.

“Please look at me,” he says. His voice hitches, the desperate command reverberating in his ears. The waves seem so far away, and it feels like the loudest he has ever spoken. It has to be, for him to be able to be heard over the silence within. _He_ turns to face Shigeru.

 _His_ face is streaked with tears, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty for the future to come. _His_ lips tremble, _his_ hands shake. The same hands plastered with bruises and cuts and taped up until there is nothing left. And—in this instance, Shigeru understands.

He feels his heart clench, and his fist speaks for itself. His knuckles throb, and glass shards scatter around them like the aftermath of an explosion. _He_ doubles over, and clutches _his_ cheek.

It must sting.

 

 

One day, Kunimi catches Shigeru gazing at Oikawa’s shrinking back. He keeps his gaze low, but Shigeru knows that he sees everything. He keeps his distance, a respectable arm’s length away. The chatter in the hallway melts into background noise, like an itch Shigeru can’t scratch.

“You’re fine the way you are, Yahaba-senpai,” Kunimi simply says.

Shigeru raises his eyebrows, musters a small smile in Kunimi’s direction. “Yeah. I am.”


End file.
